What Dreams May Come
by Ksorcere
Summary: Alain Grantaire has a strange dream.


Alain Grantaire found himself in a large room, apparently the main room of a temple. The walls were covered with the purest white marble. The ceiling could not be seen; perhaps it stretched to infinity. He glanced at the floor and discovered it to be inlaid with brightly colored mosaic tiles.  
  
There was a line of alcoves on two sides of the room, filled with statues from all different time periods and mythologies. As he walked past, he shook his head at the incongruous arrangements. There was Anubis, austere and regal looking, sandwiched in between an irritated-looking Thor and a sanguine Demeter. Morrigan gazed stoically ahead while Venus and Hathor glared at each other.  
  
At the far end of the room there was a dais, upon which three statues were prominently displayed. As Alain drew closer, his face assumed a quizzical expression. The statues were a fine example from the Golden Age of Greek art but there was something off-kilter about them. He reached the front of the dais and understood why. The statues had the proper body for the god they symbolized but their faces were that of certain Les Amis.  
  
The leftmost statue, Asclepius, bore the face of Michel Joly. He was startled when the statue spoke. "Ah. Another pilgrim. Welcome to the Temple of the Lost."  
  
Alain blinked. The voice wasn't quite like Joly's high tenor, but the inflections were the same. "Temple of the Lost?" he asked.  
  
"Are you deaf, wanderer? That is exactly what I said. The Temple of the Lost." If a statue could sigh irritatedly, it did. "I suppose I've got to give you the speech now."  
  
Before Alain could answer, the rightmost statue spoke. In a thundering bass, it proclaimed, "Nonsense, brother. Your marble wits are shattering! You're not the orator in this hallowed place."  
  
"And I suppose you are?" Alain replied caustically.  
  
The statue chuckled. "No, I am only the Gatekeeper."  
  
He raised his eyebrows as he noted this statue represented Cerberus. It reminded him of Bahorel and he grinned. His smile faded as he observed the middle statue. Larger then the other two, it radiated an aura of sovereignty. Unnerved, he took a few steps back.  
  
It bore the face of Andre Enjolras. He stared, noticing every detail etched into the marble. The statue stared coldly back at him. "Do you not speak, Lord Apollo?"  
  
Cerberus roared. "The Golden Divinity does not speak to the Forsaken."  
  
"The Forsaken?"  
  
"Yes," Asclepius intoned. "The Forsaken. Must you repeat everything I say? The ones who don't know their place in this world."  
  
"I'm not forsaken," Alain protested.  
  
"No?" Cerberus rejoined. "Then why are you here?  
  
"To worship Apollo? He is the sun, the Light of the World. What use could he have from a winecask such as you? He is not Dionysus. He does not degrade himself in gross revelry."  
  
Alain winced at the riposte. He looked down at the floor, for once having no rejoinder.  
  
"No words? No mocking retorts?" Asclepius asked. "What will become of you?"  
  
Apollo spoke for the first time. "Only the Muse knows his fate. Speak not of the lowly creature."  
  
Alain opened his mouth to speak but was enveloped in a flash of light. When his vision cleared, he was no longer in the temple. Instead, he was in a beautiful countryside populated with towering trees and melodic songbirds. The contrast between the somberness of the temple and the vitality of this land was striking.  
  
A shout behind him caught his attention and he turned around. In a clearing a few feet away from where he stood, a group of children were playing. A matronly woman kept a sharp eye on them as she supervised their games.  
  
One of the children broke away from the merriment and whistled sharply. The others stopped and turned their attention on him. Alain was whimsically reminded of Gavroche. The child took a deep breath and surveyed them sharply. "My friends," he said. "We are but children in a world of adults. We are told to be seen and not heard, to play our little games and think nothing but simple thoughts. The adults will take care of the world, and of us. We should not worry."  
  
He paused then continued his rhetoric. "Look at the world! It is full of pain and suffering. The adults are doing a wonderful job, aren't they? If they can let the world go this badly, do you really think they can take care of us? We must rebel, my friends! Overthrow the tyrannical authority of our guardians and create a new world in which we are the leaders."  
  
The matron interrupted the budding Enjolras impatiently. "Young man, how many times do I have to tell you? You cannot start a revolution until you have finished your classes and received your calling from Patria."  
  
The boy scowled. "Very well." In a familiar tone of scorn, he said to the children, "Please forgive me for interrupting your simple game of tag and forcing you to think of important things."  
  
The matron coughed and glared at him. The other children paid no heed to the boy's derision and went back to playing. The boy turned his head and gazed at Alain. He did not seem surprised to see the cynic there.  
  
The two regarded each other in silence. Finally the boy spoke. "Greetings, pilgrim. You're looking for the Muse, I know. Follow the path and you'll find her." He smiled fleetingly. "Not all of Patria's children are carved in impenetrable marble. Just her favorites."  
  
Alain blinked and the children and their watcher vanished. In their place was a winding dirt road. He stared at it apprehensively and decided to follow it. The Muse couldn't be any worse than what he'd witnessed so far, he decided.  
  
Some time later, he spied a large rock. On top of the rock, a young woman was sprawling, stylus in one hand and a tablet in front of her. She looked up as he approached and smiled. "Salve, Alain."  
  
"Salve indeed, Muse," he called out. "Am I to infer that my presence here is by your good graces?"  
  
She nodded, smiling wider. She snapped her fingers and Alain was suddenly beside her. "I wanted to determine why you're making an idiot out of yourself."  
  
Alain waited for the feelings of disorientation from his "trip" to subside then grinned cheekily at her. "Mam'selle Muse, I am only a human. A lowly one at that. Cavorting with green fairies and other such creatures doesn't leave one much time to weigh the consequences of their actions."  
  
The muse frowned at him. "You are wasting your mortal years by following a leader who belittles you at every turn and drinking yourself into Tarturus while he does so. Why?"  
  
Alain shrugged. "Every demigod needs a follower, someone to hold his shield and all that. Mine just happens to be irascible towards his. And as for the drink, well, surely you know Bacchus is a jealous god and likes to keep his followers close by."  
  
The muse leveled her stylus at him. "You have a formidable mind though you chose to hide it with drink and caustic wit. Melpomene doesn't need any help with her tragedies."  
  
"What do you mean?" Alain asked curiously.  
  
The muse sighed and held out her tablet. "Read for yourself."  
  
As he stepped forward and accepted it, a wind began to howl. A tornado surfaced, framing the rapidly darkening sky. The power of the fearful wind drew Alain and the muse into the whirling vortex. His vision went dark and he felt the tablet leave his grip…  
  
Alain sat up, gasping for breath. Slowly, he realized that he was in his dingy apartment and the strange events had only been a dream. He stared at the ceiling, hearing the muse's words replay in his head. True or not, it made no difference to him. He would follow his Apollo until the day he died. 


End file.
